


Not in daydreams but in this temple

by lafiametta



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: 12 Days of Carnivale, Gen, M/M, shortfic collection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-09-18 01:34:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16985616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lafiametta/pseuds/lafiametta
Summary: A collection of short-length fics written for the 2018 12 Days of Carnivale event.Day 1: "A Special Disguise" (Little/Jopson), 513 wordsDay 2: "State of Grace" (Little), 334 wordsDay 4: "An Unexpected Gift" (Little/Jopson Modern AU), 1200 wordsDay 8: "A Time of Miracles" (Little/Jopson Modern AU), 1699 words





	1. "A Special Disguise" (Little/Jopson)

By the time Edward remembered Captain Fitzjames’s advice, it was far too late. 

The trunk they had delivered to the men had been picked clean as a Sunday squab, with nothing left but a buckled shoe and an errant braided lock from a horsehair wig, and he had slammed it shut in rather uncharitable frustration. He supposed he could fashion something on his own, as the other officers were doing, but he had little talent for these things, no particular flair for theatricals or other such artistic endeavors. (He had always been this way, even as a child: on the few occasions when his brothers and sisters would put on small performances for the household, his assigned role would be brief, and with good reason, for he could not act and his line readings were wooden and altogether uninspiring.)

He waited another day or so, hoping for inspiration to strike, but none was forthcoming, and by the time the men had all assembled to make the half-mile trek out to the Carnivale tent he was facing the prospect of having no costume at all.

Perhaps it was all for the best, he reasoned. It was challenging enough having to take up the reins of command during the captain’s convalescence, and he often worried that the men did not fully take to his authority, perhaps harboring some grievance regarding his rapid and mysterious promotion. Flouncing around like a painted May Queen would undoubtedly do little to earn their respect, and in the end might only achieve some measure of ridicule.

(And were he to be entirely honest with himself, there was only one man aboard the ships worth making such an effort for, and he would not even be there to appreciate Edward’s attempt at fashioning a disguise. For the captain was still confined to his bunk, and his steward remained ever-vigilant, unwilling to leave his side even for the prospect of a few hours’ revelry.)

It was therefore something of a surprise, nearly halfway into the evening, to catch a glimpse of both captain and steward wandering through the press of bodies, no doubt slightly shocked at the riotous turn the festivities had since taken. Edward rushed to meet them – though not quickly enough to stop a drunken Mr. Reid from tripping and spilling half his grog onto the captain’s slops – only to have his gaze be met by a pair of pale blue eyes. They shifted upward for a moment, fixed on something just above his head, and he reached up, remembering as he did so that he was still wearing the tufted paper mitre he had donned when they had first arrived. (Even that half-hearted attempt at frivolity had, in fact, been done entirely at Captain Fitzjames’s blithesome insistence.) Edward slid the hat off, holding it ineffectually in his hand, wanting to say something but not knowing what that thing would be. 

And for one impossible moment the two of them looked at each other, without any hint of pretense or dissimulation, without, perhaps, any need for a disguise at all. 


	2. "State of Grace" (Little)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for references to cannibalism.

In the end, the days follow in succession, bleeding into one another like spilled ink along a page. No one bothers to mark the progression of time, until at last it holds no meaning, its passage measured only in the periodic gnaw of a belly or the rough thicket of whiskers that grow further and further into wildness. 

They have no way of knowing where they are, only a stumbling sense of earth and sea and sky blending unblinkingly into one, no way of knowing if they are any closer to home than they were when they first began their trek. They speak to each other very rarely, words being altogether unnecessary for survival. 

Edward mostly keeps to his tent, emptier now in the absence of Le Vesconte. The lieutenant’s body is gone – stripped and set upon, apportioned in that most savage of ways – and his effects distributed among the men, save for his watch and chain, which they return to Edward. He sits and cups it idly in his hands, feeling its weight, the faint chill of the metal against his skin.

The papists, he recalls, have a word for a place such as this, a place with no beginning and no end, where there is no escape from the traps of the mind, nowhere to hide from the knowledge of one’s sins. 

His are manifold – cowardice, weakness, disloyalty, along with his more recent descent into unspeakable acts of barbarism – and there are things he has done to others for which he can never fully repent. They appear to him sometimes, those he has wronged, standing before him in silent reproof, their gaze direct and unwavering. All Edward can acknowledge, save one, for those pale eyes are still too terrible to look upon, even now. 

He will live with this; he must. And one day – some part of him hopes it is close by – he will be delivered from this purgatory, although where he will go from there yet remains to be seen.


	3. "An Unexpected Gift" (Little/Jopson Modern AU)

It was just a silly office Secret Santa. It wasn’t supposed to be that big a deal. 

The rules were always the same every year: nothing inappropriate, nothing dangerous, and there was a price limit – nothing over twenty dollars. (Although this year, thanks to Irving in HR, there were a number of added restrictions in line with their new anti-discrimination and food-borne allergy policies.)

Edward didn’t mind the whole thing that much, but that might just have been because for the last two years he had gotten Fitzjames and felt pretty safe with getting him coffee table books of travel photography. (He always pitied whoever ended up with Helpman; the guy was a cipher who nobody really knew at all. Last year, his Secret Santa had clearly just given up and gone with a twenty-dollar Walgreens gift card.)

All in all, Edward wasn’t particularly worried about it. Until he saw the name of the person he had drawn.

_Tom Jopson._

It wasn’t that being Tom’s Secret Santa was a problem. Although it kind of was a problem. He was unarguably the cutest guy in the office and Edward had certainly noticed him. Well, more than noticed, if he was being honest. And there were those days when he wore a particular pair of gray slim-cut trousers, and if Edward happened to linger a little longer around Crozier’s office on those days, maybe just to appreciate those trousers from a slightly closer angle, whose business was it, really?

And it wasn’t just that Tom was cute – although he  _really_  was, and god, those light blue eyes were killer – but he seemed really nice too, and not in that fake corporate way where you could tell the person only saw you as an opportunity to network. On his desk, he actually kept pictures of his family, what looked like his mom and his brother, all of them looking relaxed and happy to be in each other’s presence, which was more than Edward could necessarily say about pictures of his family. He worked hard, already in the office when Edward got in and still busy at his desk when Edward left. (Not that Crozier actually kept those kind of hours, but maybe the rules were different for his executive assistant.) They had talked a couple of times, not about anything important, mostly just weekend plans and whatever new TV shows they were into. One time, Edward caught a glimpse of the Spotify playlist open on his computer and they got a borderline flirtatious debate over disco versus prog rock, leading Edward to have to make a spirited defense of Rush over the merits of Donna Summer. He was seconds away from offering to continue their argument over drinks after work when Crozier yelled out for Tom from inside his office. And that was that – Tom flashed him a sympathetic grin and Edward just went back to his desk, thinking about what might have happened had his timing just been a little bit better.

So, yeah, a Secret Santa gift. No pressure.

It had to be something good, of course. Something thoughtful, charming, displaying just the right amount of interest. And it couldn’t cost more than twenty dollars.

It took him a while to finally figure it out, and when he did, he felt pretty good about what he had come up with, although there was always the chance it could go horribly wrong. You never really knew with the office Secret Santa.

The exchange always took place on the Friday before the Christmas holiday, and over the course of the day everyone would secretly leave their gifts on the table in the conference room – that way it stayed anonymous – and then at 3 before they all headed out, there would be a little party where they would go around and each open up the gift with their own name attached.

So there they all were, standing around the conference room as they attempted to mix casually, holding plastic cups of sparkling cider and small plates filled with overly-dry holiday cookies. Someone – Irving, no doubt – had attempted to decorate, with a single strand of white streamers, probably because it was the most inoffensively non-denominational color he could find. Edward mingled as best he could, making small talk with some of the other project managers like Hodgson and Fairholme, even though occasionally he would look around and try to catch a glimpse of Tom.

It felt like forever, but they finally got to the Secret Santa exchange, with Irving picking up gifts at random and handing them out to their intended recipient. Fitzjames, of course, ended up with another book of travel photography (this one on the historic architecture of Brazil) and someone had actually gone to the real trouble of making Blanky a hand-knit winter hat. Hilariously (or maybe it was just hilarious to Edward), when Irving opened up his own gift, it turned out to be a plain white mug with the words “WORLD’S BEST HR MANAGER” written across the side in black capital letters.

Eventually, there were only two gifts left, one of which was Edward’s gift for Tom, which Irving then picked up and handed over to him. For a moment, Edward just watched, breath held tight in his chest, wondering if he had actually chosen the right thing or if it had all just been a terrible idea and Tom would spend the rest of the holiday wondering what weirdo in the office had ended up with his name.

Tom slowly pulled back the wrapping paper, revealing the flat square shape to be a vinyl record, a very specific one, in fact: Donna Summer’s  _Bad Girls_ , which Edward had bought at a downtown music shop in nearly mint condition. He had scrounged around and made some calls, finally finding the best copy he could get for under twenty dollars, and now he was hoping that it hadn’t all been for nothing. Tom would get the reference, right? And he would know that Edward remembered their conversation, that he had thought about it enough – and thought about  _Tom_  enough – to get him this special and personalized gift?

Edward didn’t have much time to get an answer, because just then Irving walked over and handed him his gift – the last in the pile, he realized – and suddenly it became clear that everyone in the conference room was looking at him, because he was last and they all wanted him to open his Secret Santa gift so they could be done and go home. The present in his hands was small and rectangular, and fairly lightweight, and as he tore open the paper, he was confused for a second, because he couldn’t quite figure out what it was. 

The outside was a plain wooden frame, and behind the glass was a concert ticket, torn at the corner, yellowing slightly with age. 

 _SUNSHINE PROMOTIONS PRESENTS RUSH_ , it read.  _HARA ARENA. DAYTON, OHIO. AUGUST 31, 1979._

As he read the words, Edward could feel the smile widening across his face. He glanced up, and there across the room was Tom, those blue eyes trained on him, with a grin bright enough to match his own. 


	4. "A Time of Miracles" (Little/Jopson Modern AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for references to drug use and drug overdose.

Tom couldn’t sleep.

Part of that, of course, could be explained by the man sound asleep next to him in his bed, curled onto his side with an arm flung halfway across Tom’s chest. 

Edward seemed comfortable, at least, his face freed from that furrowed, serious expression he wore so often in the waking hours. He looked softer now, more relaxed, those long boyish lashes fanning towards his cheeks. The bedroom lights were off, but his features were partially illuminated by the glow of lights from the Christmas tree spilling from the living room, even though the holiday had been over for nearly a week at this point.

Tom was a light sleeper, he always had been, and having someone else in bed with him tended to make things even trickier. But that was something he was definitely willing to deal with if it meant Edward staying over. It hadn’t been every night – they weren’t quite at that stage yet – but in the two weeks since the office holiday party, Edward had slept over at Tom’s more often than not, with the exception of the three days Tom had gone home to spend Christmas with his family. 

It had all happened so fast, after the Secret Santa thing. As the party had worn down, someone had come up with the idea of a bunch of them going for drinks at the bar around the corner, and Tom could tell that if he said yes Edward would come too. (Thankfully, Irving declined, citing a family engagement.) So they both went, and in between Hartnell buying everyone a second round of Jäger shots and Morfin’s drunken serenade to the long-suffering bartender, they found themselves outside on the sidewalk, ostensibly to get some air, even though it was freezing cold and Tom had started to lose some of the feeling in his fingers.

They had huddled near each other, theoretically for warmth, eventually inching closer than they had any real need to be. Until, of course, the moment when Edward had leaned over and kissed him. Tom’s face was nearly frozen solid, but Edward’s lips were warm (with just the slightest aftertaste of Jäger), and he smiled and pulled his hands from his coat pockets so he could curl them around the back of Edward’s neck. 

It hadn’t taken much to convince Edward to share a cab back to his place. And once they were finally alone, in the privacy of Tom’s apartment, they had been able to get up to all sorts of things in direct violation of HR’s non-fraternization policy. 

The thing was, Tom had had his eye on Edward for a while now, nodding hello to him in the morning when he came in, listening to him in meetings through Crozier’s half-open office door – and while he was pretty convinced the attraction was mutual, it was kind of hard to tell. Edward was fairly quiet and reserved, not given to the usual office small talk, which was why it had been nice to finally draw him into a conversation, even if it had only been about 70s music. And if Tom had suspected – and secretly fantasized – about what it would be like once Edward Little let go of just a bit of that stringent self-control, the reality of it was even hotter. 

He had almost become a fixture now in Tom’s apartment, and in his bed, that dark head of hair mussed into glorious disarray as it fell across the pillowcase.

So maybe losing a bit of sleep wasn’t  _that_  much of a sacrifice. 

He stared up at the ceiling, letting his thoughts wander as he tried to coax them back into drowsy quiet. Aside from the thing with Edward (and Tom was fine with letting it stay undefined for now, and simply enjoying it for what it was), there wasn’t much else on his mind, aside for his quick visit home for Christmas. It had been really good to see his mom and his brother – with the hours Crozier had him working, he didn’t always have time to visit that often – and get to celebrate the holiday, just the three of them. 

His brother had been in a good mood – he had just turned in the last of his college applications and now he was on a two week break from school – and his mom was in even better spirits, clearly proud of her youngest about to head off to school and thrilled to have both her sons with her for Christmas. At her insistence, they baked cookies and watched old movies, and on Christmas morning they opened presents in their pajamas, although Tom had stipulated that he needed at least a full cup of coffee before they started unwrapping anything. 

It was pretty amazing to see her like that, so excited and happy, and to know how far she had come in just two years. 

There were moments he had believed that she wouldn’t make it this far. 

Everything had started with the accident, of course. The other driver had been distracted (probably busy checking their phone or some other bullshit) and ran the red, immediately plowing right into them. His brother had been next to her, in the passenger seat, but all the airbags deployed and they both walked away from the crash, seemingly fine. But after a few weeks, her back started bothering her and there were doctor’s visits for pills, and then more and more pills: Vicodin and Percocet, eventually OxyContin. Tom hadn’t really been aware of how much she had been taking – she had been good about hiding it, and he had been so busy with work that he hadn’t been able to visit that much – and it was only later he found out how bad it had gotten, how she had moved on to occasional hits of fentanyl, somehow maintaining her habit while holding down two jobs and raising a teenage son. 

The absolute worst of it came – as it had to, eventually – one weekend in December, when had come home as a surprise and found her laying on the couch, unresponsive. His brother had been out with friends and there was no one else in the house, no one to wait with Tom as he counted the minutes for the paramedics to arrive, no one to sit with him on the vinyl upholstered bench seat in the back of the ambulance, no one to hold his hand as he begged and pleaded with whoever might possibly be listening to not let her die. 

Maybe someone was listening, maybe not. He wanted to think someone was. 

There was denial at first – as if the reality of what he had seen could possibly be denied – and then anger and tears and finally acceptance. She agreed to rehab, letting Tom’s aunt and uncle take temporary custody of his brother until she was ready, and it had taken almost a year, two treatment facilities, a halfway house, and a NA sponsor Tom wanted to nominate for sainthood to finally get her to where she was now. 

But there was always that question, that dread, lurking in the back of his mind – as he assumed it lurked in hers –  _was that really the end of it? Would the need ever get so strong again that she wouldn’t be able to resist?_

There wasn’t anyone he could tell, really, no one he could share these private fears with, certainly not with her and certainly not with his brother, who had already had to deal with far too much. And so Tom tried not to think about it too much, putting on his most cheerful face for when he saw them, doing his best to take each day as it came. 

“Can’t sleep?” 

Tom turned his head in the direction of the low voice and saw that Edward was awake, his dark eyes glinting in the low light of the room. 

“Just stuff on my mind, I guess,” Tom replied, as he stretched his legs out under the covers. 

The answer was vague and noncommittal, he knew, but it wasn’t as if he was expecting Edward to do much else beyond nod and go back to sleep.  

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Tom’s first instinct was to say no – perhaps not quite that directly, but to smile and find some way to gently decline the offer. Nobody needed to listen to him talk about things like that, especially not someone like Edward, who hadn’t signed up for hearing about all of Tom’s family issues when he decided to stay over. But there was something in Edward’s eyes, in the open, unguarded expression on his face that made Tom pause, because he realized, right at that moment, how much he really did want to talk about it.

And so he did. 

He told Edward everything: about his mother and his brother and his life growing up, about the accident and the pills and the couch and the disinfectant smell of her hospital room where he had waited for her to wake up. He told him about visit back home, and how proud he was of her, even as he was afraid, and guilty too, for allowing himself to doubt her when he considered the possibility of her relapsing.  

“It’s just hard sometimes, you know,” he said, “being alone with all of it.”

Edward was quiet – he hadn’t said much as Tom was talking, but had laid there next to him, listening patiently – and then reached up, letting his fingers graze along the line of Tom’s jaw. 

“You don’t have to be alone with it.” Edward swallowed roughly, pressing his lips together. “Not if you don’t want to be. Not anymore.”

Everything went still for a moment, even Tom’s heart, which he could feel in the deepest, most tender recess of his chest, although what it was trying to tell him, he wasn’t even sure. He watched as the Christmas tree lights from the living room glowed soft pink, blue, yellow, green across Edward’s bare skin, and then Tom turned and gently rolled over him, their lips meeting in a tiny miracle of light and breath and heat.


End file.
